


Numb

by Asynca



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Lore Exploration, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 00:24:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12876243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asynca/pseuds/Asynca
Summary: Lore exploration of how Moira may have been involved in creating Widowmaker. Set just before the fall over Overwatch, before the death of Gerard.Moira, currently an academic in residence at one of Oasis' leading universities in genetics, gets an unexpected house guest in the middle of the night.





	Numb

When there was a knock on her door at _3am_ , Moira assumed it was one of her students panicking about their PhD. It wouldn’t be the first time. One of the great benefits to being an academic at the world’s leading genetics university was that all her students were highly engaged. Unfortunately, the drawback was that it meant many of them did nothing else except their research and assumed that just because they were awake into the small hours of the night, everyone else was, too. It was exhausting, but it _did_ pay the bills and allow her some time to do her own… ‘private’ research.

While she was contemplating simply ignoring whoever it was, they knocked again; harder this time.

She sighed at length. She should probably see what all the fuss was about, shouldn’t she? Pulling herself out of her comfortable bed and draping thin gown around her for modesty, she went to check which of her students was about to get a good talking-to.  

She opened it expecting to see a puffy-eyed, frantic student apologetically begging for her help, but the corridor was empty.

Odd. She leant out of the doorway, checking both directions. Nothing. All she could hear was the hum of the air-conditioning unit.

She closed the door, frowning. She was about to give up and return to bed when she heard the knock again—but it actually wasn’t from the door at all. She turned her head towards the noise and found herself facing her balcony window. Someone was standing there, _staring_ at her.  

She _jumped_. Good Heavens, what was—?! What was a _woman_ doing on her balcony?!

As she was reaching for the security alarm at her door and sinking back against it—had this woman come to rob her? Kill her? Was this something to do with Blackwatch, perhaps?—it suddenly occurred to her that even though the woman looked like she’d been just about dragged through a hedge backwards, Moira recognised that face from somewhere.

That realisation distracted her long enough for her to note the woman’s desperate expression. It looked genuine; and in the light falling through the window from her living room on the woman’s face, she could see puffy and bloodshot eyes. She’d been crying, and a lot.

Good Lord. What on earth was a crying woman doing on her fifth-floor balcony?

While she was trying to figure it out, the woman made a motion to be let inside. Curiosity got the better of Moira, and she decided to take her chances with this assailant and open the door.

Fortunately, the woman didn’t try to attack her. She just took a couple of measured steps forward, hands clenched tensely by her side, pale as milk. Heavens, though: she looked familiar.

When the woman didn’t speak immediately, Moira prompted her, “I gather you’ll be telling me exactly what brings you onto my balcony at 3am?” She crossed her arms. “I don’t think you’re a student here, are you?”

The woman shook her head. “No, I’m not,” she said—in an accent. French, perhaps? While she was puzzling over that, the woman opened her mouth silently for a moment, and then managed, “Gabriel Reyes said you might be able to help me?”

Moira’s eyebrows shot up. “ _Gabe_ sent you here? From Blackwatch?”

She was holding herself oddly poised, as if she was afraid to move. “From Overwatch. I need a doctor.”

Oh. Moira’s eyes dipped down her body automatically—pain would certainly explain her odd posture. “Overwatch has good doctors,” she pointed out. “Dr Ziegler, in particular, has extensive experience in internal—”

The woman grimaced. “Not Angela.”

‘Angela’? “Alright,” Moira said carefully. “I suppose I can have a look at you if Gabe asks a favour, but I must warn you, it’s been quite a while since I did any sort of general consulting.” She stood aside for the woman to walk past her. “Well, you’d better come in, then.”

The woman soundlessly followed the request, walking stiffly into the middle of the living room where she just stood, silent, hands cupping either elbow across her slender stomach. Moira was just about to go through the usual medical, ‘Tell me what brings you here’-s when she noticed the woman’s fingertips.

“Good Lord!” she closed the gap between them in a single long step, taking one of the woman’s hands. “Look at these! They’re practically blue! Come, lie down,” she said, trying to lead the woman to her sofa. “Before I can do anything we need to call you an ambulance.”

The woman fought her on that comment, though, her feet planted firmly on the ground. “You don’t,” she said. “They’ve been this way for days, it’s something that Talon did to me.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t help? Is it a type of anaemia, or…” She suddenly realised what the woman had said: ‘Something that Talon did to me’. French accent, familiar face… She pieced together where she knew this woman from. “You’re Gérard’s wife!” she realised aloud. It had been in all the papers. “Amélie Lacroix, the poor soul who got kidnapped by Talon last month!”

The woman didn’t contradict her, she just answered Moira’s initial question. “It’s not anaemia. I’m stable. But I can’t tell Angela.”

That, Moira found odd. “Why on earth not? To be honest, Angela would be better placed to help you with something like this,” she admitted. “I haven’t done consulting in more than a decade.”

“Angela would involuntarily commit me to the Overwatch med bay, and I would die there.”

She’d _die_ there? Moira honestly couldn’t imagine that it was even possible to die in the Overwatch med bay, especially with Angela Ziegler as the supervising doctor. Nothing Amélie was saying or doing made any sort of sense. It was a presentation consist with medical shock, and if this woman _hadn’t_ been Gérard’s wife and sent to her directly by Gabe, Moira would have had no qualms about involuntarily committing her somewhere, herself.

Idly, Moira put a couple of fingers gently against Amélie’s neck to check her pulse, expecting to feel it racing. When she felt nothing at all, it really got her attention. Eventually, after what must have been three full seconds, she felt a strong beat. Again, after 2-3 seconds, another. She counted them, and placed Amélie’s HR at something like 20-30 beats a minute. Very bradycardic, which explained her hypoxic presentation. But it was so, so odd for someone who _must_ be in shock, unless she was on some sort of beta-blocker or the like? “How do you feel?”

Amélie blinked slowly. “Tired,” she said, the weight of the whole world in the word. “So tired, but I can’t sleep.”

Moira’s fingers briefly explored the lymph nodes around Amélie’s neck, before falling by her side. Well, beta-blockers would explain the sleep disturbances and the lack of cardiac compensation for her shock… “So what is Gabe hoping I’ll be able to do for you?”

“That you’ll make it stop.”

“Make it stop?” She frowned. “Your _heart_?” Well, Gabe _would_ send someone to her instead of Angela to euthanise…

Oddly, that made the woman laugh darkly for a couple of moments. “I wish,” she said, and Moira wasn’t sure if she meant it literally or just because she was clearly suffering. She shook her head, though.

When she didn’t explain, Moira prompted her. “Make what stop?” Again, the woman was silent, moving to cross her arms again, hunched forward. “Are you in pain?”

That dark smile again. “Yes.”

It was like pulling teeth getting answers out of this woman. “Where? What sort of pain?”

“Everywhere.”

Moira made a somewhat frustrated noise. “I’m afraid you’re going to need to be far more explicit than that.”

“Okay.” The smile was somewhat unnerving; Moira wondered what she was going to hear. “My fingers ache,” she said, holding them in front of her to look at them. “My feet ache. I feel like I’m not really awake and I’m not really asleep. When I lie down to sleep, I can still feel them plugging these things into me.” She lifted the hair behind her ears, showing Moira electrical ports that had been installed in her skin all around the base of her scalp. “They made me kill people,” she said. “Dozens and dozens, watching my brain waves until they were flat and mechanical. I can feel where the gun sat in my hand. I can feel where the knife sat in my hand, too. I remember things, but I’m not sure if they’re memories? I dream about killing people. I don’t even know if they’re people I’ve already killed, or if I’m imagining it, and sometimes, when I pick up an object, I feel like plunging into someone’s chest. Sometimes it’s such a vivid image I’m not even sure of I’ve done it or not.” She took a slow, careful breath. “I killed so many people. I can remember all of their faces, and it _hurts_ ,” she said, exhaustion audible. “It hurts, and I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I want _that_ to stop.”

Wow. It seemed her physical presentation was the least of her worries. “I see.”

“You asked.”

Moira took a slow breath. “I did.” It was a lot to take in. “Gabe thinks I can do something about _that_ sort of pain?”

She shrugged. “Can you?”

Well, if she was having issues distinguishing imagination from reality, seeing things and _feeling_ too much… “Perhaps,” Moira answered, considering it. “I might be able to try altering your dopamine receptor expression. Perhaps also some of the systems in your thalamus…”

Something relaxed in Amélie as Moira spoke, even though she wouldn’t have understood what it meant. “Okay,” she said, and then presented herself as if she thought Moira would just be able to do it there and then.

Moira gave her a look. “This isn’t instantaneous,” she said. “Altering expression will necessitate me looking at your current expressions, manufacturing the right CRISPR technology, and then probably repeating the same processes many, many times before I manage to get the desired outcome in you. It could be days, or it could be months.”

Amélie was unmoved. “Start now, then.” When she looked up at Moira, there was a deep, hungry emptiness in her eyes. She _looked_ tired. Existentially tired, like there was a huge, gaping maw inside her. “I just want to be numb,” she murmured. “For what I have to do, I want to be numb.”

For what she had to do? Did she mean recovery, perhaps? Trauma could often be a very painful experience to be counselled through, and it sounded like Amélie had endured much at the hands of Talon. Moira wondered if perhaps she could fast-track the re-integration process and Amélie’s recovery by allowing her to avoid the typical pain associated with it? It was an interesting premise, and certainly a hypothesis worth investigating. It would be a breakthrough in trauma recovery if it worked, even if it was rather a long shot. _Every new treatment starts as a crazy long shot_ , Moira reminded herself. Furthermore, it would be nothing but a kindness to spare this woman pain, after all she'd clearly been through. She’d have to do it on the sly, though: Ethics would _never_ approve.

Moira glanced at the clock. _3:07am_. A good time of morning to start an experiment she probably shouldn’t be doing in the first place. “Very well,” she told Amélie. “Let me just get dressed. I’ll take you down to the lab right away.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
